Taking Advantage
by Firebird9
Summary: That's what it comes down to for both of them, really: need. The need for an outlet, an escape from everything that's been going on around them. Nicholas/Doris.
1. Chapter 1

**Taking Advantage**

 **Rating:** T (sex, language)

 **Author:** Firebird

 **Disclaimer:** Hot Fuzz? Yeah, not mine.

 **Author's Note:** My laptop died quite suddenly a couple of weeks ago, and as I was sifting through the backup files on various memory sticks I found this. I wrote it years ago, and when I re-read it it still seemed pretty good, so I thought I'd post it and see whether you agree.

* * *

The first time Nicholas Angel sleeps with Doris Thatcher is a few weeks after what has already come to be referred to, in Sandford at least, as The Incident.

Since being released from hospital, with miraculously minor injuries considering what he's been through, he has stayed two nights on the Fishers' sofa (two bedrooms, three kids, no thanks), three nights in the Walkers' spare room (waking to Saxon slobbering on his face no matter how firmly he shuts his door? Again, no thanks), three nights on the Turners' sofa (or, more accurately, on their sofa cushions on the floor, as they don't have a sofa long enough to accommodate even his relatively small frame. Thanks, but no), and half a night at Danny's (the sense of his friend's presence was overwhelming , even though Danny himself was miles away recuperating at Flint House, and would be for some time. Nicholas left at 2am and spent the rest of the night in his makeshift office), before finally ending up sleeping on Doris' sofa-bed in her tiny one-bedroom flat, an arrangement which has worked out surprisingly well.

It helps, Nicholas thinks, that Doris has toned down the flirtatious banter considerably both inside and outside the office, although whether her more subdued behaviour is due to his influence or, more likely, a reaction to The Incident, is unclear.

Doris' flat might be small, but his new, temporary, office is smaller. Those members of the Sandford Police Service able to return to either light or active duty are being housed in the parts of the Village Hall not currently being used by the officers of Operation Morning-Star, aka Operation work-out-just-how-many-people-the-sociopathic-police-inspector-and-his-friends-murdered-and-how-and-when (no point in asking why, though. Not in crazy-town). Not that there's much space left over for the Sandford officers. Nicholas' 'office' is more of a glorified broom-cupboard housing a rickety second-hand desk, a swivel-chair with a missing wheel and no back, and a filing cabinet which doesn't lock and occasionally opens of its own accord, with approximately one square metre of floor-space left over, assuming the filing cabinet is closed and no-one is actually in the room.

He's searching for blank requisition forms in the piles of paper which cover almost every centimetre of the room when it finally becomes too much for him. It dawns on him as he searches that not only does he have no idea where the forms are, but he also has no idea what he wanted them for, either, and that the chaotic state of his office could easily be symbolic of the chaos which has consumed his life as a whole. He needs some of those 'in' and 'out' trays, for a start, and a phone, and a computer, and a chair that doesn't keep trying to dump him on the floor, and a proper office, and a _proper fucking police station_ , but you can't just requisition one of those, oh no. There's no little box to tick on the requisition form to order a 'police station'. Doris tried putting it under 'miscellaneous' last week, on a form which he signed when he was too busy and preoccupied and just plain exhausted to pay any attention to exactly what he was signing, and he received a nasty email from Headquarters in response. Which he didn't learn about until they phoned him to demand an explanation as to why he hadn't responded to the email. Apparently 'because all the computers were blown up' is not a satisfactory excuse.

So now he's looking for the damn requisition forms for what seems like the thousandth time that day, and he can't even think what he wants them for, and the damn filing cabinet has just whacked him in his barely-healed left arm, and his office looks like a bomb's just gone off in it – and he should know – and suddenly he's sweeping all the damn papers off his desk with a cry that's somewhere between a yell and a wail, and slamming his fist down on the desk, where it connects painfully with the head of a nail sitting slightly proud of the ancient wood, and then he just drops to the floor, sitting with his back pressed against the wall as he weeps tears that owe more to anger and frustration than grief or pain.

"Chief?" Doris calls as she pushes the door halfway open, which is as far as it will go with him in the way, and squeezes through the gap, closing it behind her and making the whole place seem more claustrophobic than ever. "You alright?"

He raises his head and glares at her, the hard-won camaraderie of the last few weeks subsumed by a tidal wave of emotion.

"No I am not bloody alright, Doris! Do I look as though I'm anywhere approaching alright? Here I am, trying to clear up a mess that I didn't create, in a place I never wanted to be, for people who mostly hate me for destroying their precious idyllic lives. How the hell is that supposed to be alright? Oh, and my hand?" He holds up his left hand, now bleeding from the nail. "My hand is now fucked – again! So tell me, please, Doris, how exactly am I supposed to be alright?"

She stands there right through his tirade, saying nothing, just nodding slightly in what might be sympathy or even understanding. There's a long silence once he's finished, and he drops his head, fiercely ashamed now on top of everything else.

"You about done?" she asks tartly, dropping to a crouch in front of him in what little space there is left. She's had sex in places smaller than this, so it isn't too much of a challenge.

He nods, head still buried in his hands.

"Christ, Doris, I'm sorry. You've been nothing but supportive... I shouldn't be taking all of this out on you."

She shrugs. "Got to take it out on someone, I guess." She stands again, and holds out her hand. "Come on. Time to go home."

He follows her numbly as she switches off lights and closes doors, leading him out past the larger, brighter, and infinitely better-equipped rooms which house Operation Morning-Star, and down the street to her flat, which is mercifully close by.

He doesn't have anything more to say as he sits down on the side of the sofa-bed, which neither of them have bothered to fold away for days now.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and she sits down next to him.

"It's okay," she replies, nudging him with her shoulder. "Reckon after all you've been through you're probably overdue for a meltdown."

That's all it takes to set him off again, shaking silently this time as he thinks of all he _has_ been through: betrayed by his superiors; mocked and derided by his new colleagues; deceived, betrayed and damn near murdered by his new Inspector; beaten up, shot, shot at, beaten up again, blown up, and finally watching his best friend come within a hair's breadth of dying.

Doris slips her arms around him, murmuring soothing words in a soft voice. She's just trying to comfort him, but somewhere amidst the sobs he lifts his head and meets her gaze, surprised by how close her face is to his, and somehow his lips are meeting hers, and one kiss becomes two, and he knows he should stop because he's her commanding officer and it's his responsibility to put a stop to this right now, before it goes any further, but he can't seem to bring himself to break away, and it feels so good to be this close to someone again, and she certainly isn't objecting...

They tumble together onto the sofa-bed, pulling impatiently at each other's clothes, needing more, needing warm skin-on-skin to banish the chill of all they've been through, wanting to forget everything in favour of losing themselves in the moment. It's swift and passionate, and when it's over they collapse together into a brief sleep born more of emotional than physical exhaustion.

Nicholas wakes first, momentarily disorientated by the sensation of a warm female body curled against his. Then memory returns, and with it a crushing sense of guilt. _'Not Doris'_ , he thinks despairingly. He's been the Acting Inspector for less than a month and he's already managed to take advantage of his only female officer. His superiors back in the Met had been bastards, and Frank Butterman was a sociopath, but him? He's the scum of the earth, no question.

Another thought hits him, triggering a fresh wave of guilt. He didn't wear a condom, and he has no idea whether she's on the pill or not. And regardless of that, how many other men has she slept with, and what might he potentially have caught? More guilt, for branding her a slut even in his head. It takes two to tango.

She feels him moving, and stirs. "Nicholas?"

"Doris, I'm so sorry." He sits up, unable to bring himself to look at her, turning to sit on the edge of the bed, aware that he's naked and has no immediate way of covering himself, but he has to say this now.

"Nicholas..." she tries to break in, but he cuts her off.

"I'll find somewhere else to stay: go back to the Turners' or something." He gazes at the floor, unable even to lift his head for the shame.

"Nicholas..."

"I should never have let this happen. I'm your commanding officer; it was utterly reprehensible of me to take advantage of you in such a manner."

"Trust you to be using big words five minutes after getting laid." Her tone of voice, unlike his, is light, teasing.

"I hope you can forgive me, but if you can't-"

"Nicholas Angel, will you please shut up for just one minute?"

He's never heard her use that particular tone of voice before, certainly not to him, and thinks distractedly that she would be a far more effective police officer if she were only willing to use it more often. It certainly works on him, and he obediently shuts up.

She moves to sit next to him, pulling the blanket from beneath them to wrap around herself, and grabbing a pillow which she deposits thoughtfully in his lap. His lips twist in a slight smile as he grabs it and clasps it to himself, although he keeps his eyes firmly on the floor.

"Thanks."

"First of all, you did not 'take advantage' of me," she tells him, voice clipped and precise. "If I'd wanted you to stop I'd have said so, and you would have stopped" – she knows him well enough to have no doubt of that – "and none of this would have happened." She pauses. "Did you hear me telling you to stop?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "No."

"Right, and it weren't because you're my inspector, either. I've got three older brothers, and a mean punch on me when I've a mind to, and don't you forget it, but you weren't the only one who needed this.

"Second of all, you ain't going back to the Turners', or anywhere else for that matter, 'cos you've about worn your welcome out just about anywhere you might care to go. Unless you fancy learning more about the Andys' personal lives than you'd probably be comfortable with, anyways."

He winces at the thought. He has his suspicions about those two, who are housemates as well as partners, and they dislike him enough already without his having to take action over direct evidence of fraternisation. Although that would be the pot calling the kettle black, now.

"And as for forgiving you, I figure I used you as much as you used me, so we're about even there." She changes the subject abruptly. "Now, how about you let me take a look at that hand."

Apparently the discussion is over, and he holds his hand out to her wordlessly. It's stopped bleeding but the nail has left a jagged cut and it's still a mess, and she twists and turns it a couple of times, assessing the full extent of the damage.

"First aid kit's in the bathroom," she tells him, standing up and going to get it. He uses the opportunity to pull on his briefs, and by the time she returns to clean and bandage his hand she's wearing a bathrobe.

"I'm on the pill, by the way," she tells him as she wraps the bandage around his injury, and that's the last either of them says on the subject.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Nicholas Angel sleeps with Doris Thatcher is the day they pull her cousin Meg out of the cellar beneath James Reaper's barn.

Megan Smith was fifteen years old and six months pregnant when she disappeared almost a year earlier. Maybe that was why they killed her, but, really, who knows? The NWA were all batshit insane in Nicholas' book. Maybe she played her music too loud, or dyed her hair the wrong colour, or wore her skirt too short in church, or something. It doesn't matter anyway, because they snuffed out her young life like she was nothing more than a bug to be squashed, and it's Doris who has the unenviable task of identifying her remains.

Nicholas accompanies her, whether as her commanding officer or as her friend he isn't sure and no-one asks. Afterwards, DI Jones suggests he take her home and sit with her a while, maybe make her a cup of tea.

He gets as far as putting the kettle on, then goes to sit beside her on the sofa – he folds the bed away every morning now, a fact upon which she hasn't commented – and they promptly forget about tea.

"She was fifteen years old!" Doris wails, and Nicholas wraps his arms around her. He isn't thinking of sex; he just wants to comfort her, to do something, anything, to relieve her pain.

"I know," he tells her softly, sadly. It's hardly the first time he's been through this, although it is the first time with someone he knows personally, but it never gets any easier.

"Fifteen fucking years old! Who the hell just goes out and kills a fucking fifteen-year-old girl?" Fists clench in impotent anger, then she turns and clings to him with fierce, despairing strength.

"I don't know." She's shaking, and he wonders if he should call someone, but isn't sure who. Her family will find out about Meg soon enough, and then they'll have their own grief to deal with.

"And for what? Because she was pregnant? Toby fucking Forrester is still walking around the village, large as life and twice as ugly, isn't he? It takes more than one person to make a fucking baby. And they killed it, too. Not even fucking born, and it's dead. And for what?"

"I don't know, Doris. I wish I did."

She raises her head and looks up at him, her cheeks stained with tears. "How could they do that, Nicholas? How could they betray us like that?"

He can only shake his head. "I don't know, Doris. I just don't know."

He's cupping her cheek with his palm, his fingers tangled in her hair, which has come loose from its usual neat bun, and she looks him straight in the eye for a moment before lowering her gaze and kissing his palm once, again. It's his left hand, the one he's injured so many times, but those kisses are about the most painful thing he's ever felt, coming from a heart overwhelmed with grief and cutting straight to his own.

She stops and looks at him again, and they're both absolutely still for a moment before his hand moves to the back of her neck, and she leans in to meet him, and they're kissing.

This time it's slower, more tender, because he wants more than anything to comfort her, to make her forget what's happened, for a little while at least. It's also awkward, because a folded-up sofa-bed is not exactly an ideal place for this, but it doesn't matter in the slightest.

They've started out with her on top, but by the time they're actually naked she's rolled them both over, positioning him above her, and he has time to wonder, before he loses himself in her, whether she habitually prefers it this way or just needs him on top of her today, some ancient instinct seeking protection by putting him, rather than her, into the line of fire. Not that it matters.

This time when he wakes up, with her disappearing down the back of the sofa, and him half on top of her with his arse hanging off the side, his first thought is _'not again.'_ They had an agreement, albeit an unspoken one, that this was not to happen, and now here they are.

He tries to think of what to say to her this time. He could apologise again, but he wouldn't mean it because he isn't sorry it happened, not really. He could tell her it was a mistake, but he doesn't believe that for a second and suspects that, even if he did, saying so would probably not be the best move on his part. He could say that it won't happen again, only he can't promise that because he rather thinks that it will. The thought doesn't make him entirely, or even slightly, unhappy, and he suddenly wonders just what exactly it is that he feels for Doris.

It isn't love. He's been in love precisely once in his life, and he knows what it feels like, which was how come he knew it was time to leave Janine, because at the end of the day he couldn't bring himself to marry someone he didn't love. He's pretty certain that doesn't apply here: Doris isn't in love with him, so they're even.

It isn't the kind of connection he has with Danny, either, the friendship which means that Danny is still his best mate even though they've now spent more time apart, due to Danny's injuries, than they did as partners. Danny's the closest friend he's had in a long time, his 'best friend' to use a term right out of primary school, and whatever he feels for Doris isn't anything like that.

It's certainly far more than the relationship between a commanding officer and a subordinate, and he doesn't particularly want to go any further down that road, thank-you-very-much.

If it wasn't for the whole 'having sex' part, he might almost have said it was brother/sister, and at that point he feels sufficiently queasy to shut down that train of thought entirely.

For the moment, at least, the precise nature of his relationship with Doris defies categorisation, and he's happy to leave it that way.

She stirs, and he kisses the top of her head. "You awake?"

He feels her nod, soft hair tickling slightly against his bare chest. "Yeah." And not entirely happy about it, judging by her tone. Not that he can blame her, under the circumstances. Now that the sex-induced amnesia is wearing off, Meg is clearly uppermost in her mind once again.

"We can't keep doing this, you know," he tells her, although his voice lacks conviction.

"I know." She sounds similarly unconvinced.

He sighs and sits up. "You want that cup of tea?" he asks.

At her nod he pulls on his briefs, then his pants, and goes to boil the kettle again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Guess the movie and win a prize. Note: the prize is a lie.

* * *

The third time they have sex is about a week later, and this time they really have no excuse.

Doris is still grieving for her cousin – Nicholas has subsequently learned from Danny that the two were close, more like sisters, and that the only reason Doris hadn't pursued the disappearance was a note supposedly from Meg saying she'd gone to a special home up in Scotland that catered for young, unwed mothers and wanted to 'work things out on my own' – but Doris sleeps in her bed and Nicholas sleeps on the sofa-bed and that's the way it is.

Nicholas is still surprised that things between them aren't more awkward, especially at work, but Doris is more-or-less her usual cheerful self, and somehow that makes it easier. He does catch her flirting with two of the detectives from Operation Morning-Star, and is torn between wanting to quietly rebuke her for it on the basis that it's unprofessional and worrying that if he does so she'll think he's being possessive. Before he can decide on a course of action, Operation Morning-Star has provided them with two phone-lines, a fax machine, and two functioning computers with a printer and wireless internet access, plus the access code for the photocopier, and Doris' triumphant smirk when she tells him all this confirms that she considers feminine wiles to be a perfectly acceptable way of obtaining what they need. Given their desperately under-resourced circumstances, Nicholas decides discretion is the better part of valour and keeps his mouth shut.

He's also surprised that no-one else seems to have noticed that something's up between them, but everyone's still so wrapped up in their own shock and misery that they don't really have that much energy to spare for analysing each other's emotions and behaviour. The Incident has changed everyone, too, so perhaps they're ascribing any weirdness they do note to that.

And tonight it's just the two of them and they've unfolded the sofa-bed – ironically, because it allows them to place more distance between one another – and Doris has made popcorn, and they're watching a movie. An animated movie, no less. Nicholas was dubious, but he can't fault Doris' logic. She wants something light, something where the good guys win and the bad guys get their comeuppance and there's happy endings all round and, really, where better to find all that than in a kids' movie? Or a romantic comedy, he supposes, but he's glad she didn't suggest that. Janine loved those movies. He hates them. With a passion.

As Danny sometimes does, Doris recites dialogue along with the characters. 'Shouldn't you be in school?' one character asks another.

"Shouldn't I have a lawyer?" Doris deadpans back, with identical timing and inflection to the character onscreen.

"How many times have you seen this?" he asks her.

"Oh, loads. Now shush."

"Are you going to recite every line that takes your fancy?"

"Yep. An' I'll be singing along later, too."

"Unbelievable." He shakes his head but can't repress a smile. This is the happiest he's seen her since The Incident, and he isn't about to take that away from her. "I'll shut up now, shall I?" he asks instead.

"Thanks."

"There's something not right about that rabbit," he remarks a while later, reaching absently for the popcorn. Doris smirks at him, and he knows he's right. The bunny did it, unbelievable as it may sound.

The movie finally ends, and he turns to her, shaking his head.

"The bunny did it," he tells her, still finding that both amusing and strangely disquieting.

"Yep," she tells him, nodding her head. "It was a bad bunny."

"I can't believe they made the bunny evil."

She's trying not to laugh. "C'mere," she says suddenly, and before he can react she's got her arms around him and he can taste the butter and salt from the popcorn on her lips as they meet his.

This time they slow down, and lie opposite each other trading kisses.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," he says between kisses, but makes no effort to stop or move away.

"You think?" she responds.

"We're friends, co-workers. I'm your boss."

Her lips quirk at that, no doubt thinking something dirty, but what she says is, "haven't you ever heard the term 'friends with benefits'?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea." But they're still kissing, and his hands are still roving over her body. His mind may think it's a bad idea, but his body, and particularly those parts of it immediately south of his belt, think it's a bloody fantastic one.

"You," she says, kissing him again and running her hands up his chest, "think way too much, Nicholas Angel."

He nods. "That's probably true." She runs her hands suddenly down his body, skimming over his belt buckle to cup the bulge beneath it, and he groans. "God, Doris."

His body takes over, and he's done thinking for a while.

"Why do we keep doing this?" he asks her afterwards.

"You really don't switch off, do you?" she asks him, sounding amused. Her words remind him of Danny, but Danny isn't someone he particularly wants to be thinking about just at the moment. Danny and sex go together in his brain like oil-slicks and cute little sea-otters, which is to say it isn't pretty.

"Yeah, I have a habit of doing that. Makes me a useless boyfriend." It's out before he can stop it, but she just shrugs.

"Just as well you ain't my boyfriend then, isn't it?"

"I guess so." A pause. "So what exactly am I, Doris?"

She makes a sound that's half a groan and half a laugh, rolling over and burying her face in the pillow before turning to look at him, still lying on her stomach.

"You're really worried about this, aren't you?" she asks him.

"Aren't you?"

She sobers suddenly, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him. "If you're worried about your career, you don't need to be," she tells him, no trace of laughter in her eyes. "I'm not the sort to go all 'woman scorned' on a guy, especially not over a bit of comfort-sex, and it's not like there's any witnesses. It'd just be your word against mine."

"I wouldn't lie about this," he tells her sincerely, less because of any feelings for her than because he knows he's a useless liar. "And that's not what's bothering me. It's..." he shakes his head. "Hell, Doris, I don't love you. I care about you, but I'm not in love with you. And that isn't likely to change." He turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, half expecting her to grab her clothes and order him out. Instead she nods.

"Fair enough. I ain't in love with you either. But you do care about me, and that's about what I need at the moment.

And that's what it comes down to for both of them, really: need. The need for an outlet, an escape from everything that's been going on around them. It's a stupid reason, a worthless attempt at an excuse, but he's willing to take what he can get.

"So, this 'friends with benefits' thing: how exactly does that work?"


	4. Chapter 4

'Friends with benefits', he discovers, isn't a regular thing, even when you're living in the same flat, although that does have an impact. Like when she rolls over the morning after the movie as he's lacing up his shoes ready to go jogging and sleepily asks him to pick up some milk on the way home. When he gets back a half-hour later and hands it to her he kisses her on the cheek, an absent gesture that makes him blush when he realises what he's just done.

"Guess I'd better watch I don't do that at work," he remarks, and she giggles.

Secrecy is still important, particularly with his career at stake. Not that hers would exactly thrive on an accusation of fraternisation either, but she's the subordinate officer, and female, so at least she'd still _have_ a career. He wonders sometimes why it is that he isn't a lot more worried about that than he is, but concludes that it's for a very simple reason: he really does need this. They both do. He isn't sure whether there are any other men in her life, particularly after he moves out to stay with Danny until his friend is done convalescing or until his cottage is ready, whichever comes first. They use a condom after the first time, so he figures he has no good cause to ask. He rather suspects, though, that there aren't.

Snatching time together becomes more challenging once they're no longer living together. It's either her place or his, any other location is strictly out of bounds, the chances of discovery, and the stakes if they are discovered, being too high.

Probably the worst thing is when she comes over to Danny's to watch movies with them. The three of them sit close together on Danny's sofa, and fall asleep there as often as not, and Nicholas knows it frustrates her as much as it does him to be so close and yet not do anything about it. She and Danny are related somehow, although they're not exactly clear on how. Second cousins, Nicholas thinks, with Danny on the other side from poor Meg Smith. It means that Danny isn't a romantic rival (not that 'romantic' really seems to be part of the arrangement), but Nicholas is still reluctant to let even his best friend know what's been going on while he's been away. Plausible deniability, he reminds himself when he gets the overwhelming urge to share his secret with his best mate. He knows that Doris is being similarly discreet.

Still, the conversation he overhears at the pub one night is amusing. A couple of local lads are coming on to Doris – nothing outrageous, just a bit of harmless flirting – and she brushes them off dismissively and goes to get herself another drink. He's nearby, but out of their line of sight. He and Doris hadn't come to the pub together, and he'd been heading over to say hello when he saw what was going on.

"She's changed, that one," one of the men remarks, and Nicholas can picture him watching Doris as she walks away. "Always used to be up for a quick tumble, our Doris."

"Not since Inspector Angel took her under his wing," the other one comments, and Nicholas catches his breath. Surely they haven't let it slip? The lads' next words reassure him.

"What, you mean him and her-?"

The second one snorts with laughter. "What, Inspector Stick-up-his-Arse? Get involved with a subordinate officer? Didn't think they were offering skiing holidays in hell this year, mate. Nah, I just mean she's his little protégée, isn't she? All work and no play, just like her boss."

"Shame too," the first one remarks. "That girl knew how to play."

"'Ere, Nicholas," Danny appears by his elbow at that moment with a couple of pints. "You want this or not?"

"You shouldn't be drinking just yet," Nicholas tells his friend, taking one of the pints from his hand.

"Just the one, then I'm on to lemonade," Danny promises. "Saw Doris at the bar: want to go join her?"

Danny is true to his word about the lemonade, but refuses to let Nicholas trade off his own lager for cranberry juice in sympathy. Doris is drinking mixers tonight, and getting more than a little tipsy as a result. She's with a couple of her girlfriends, one of whom, Heather, makes a couple of passes at Nicholas before giving up and moving on to one of the lads from earlier. The other girl, Bonny, picks the other one, and Doris is effectively abandoned. She doesn't seem too worried, though. The Turners arrive and occupy the vacated seats, and somehow it's getting late and Nicholas has had a couple too many, and Doris has had _more_ than a couple too many.

"Time for me to be heading home I think, Inspector," she giggles, as she almost knocks her drink over reaching for it.

"You can't walk by yourself. Not at this time of night, not in your state," he tells her. It's true. He's seen what happens to women who wander home alone late at night, particularly the ones who are so drunk they're tripping over their own feet. He wouldn't wish that on anyone. Especially Doris.

"So walk me home then," she tells him.

He hesitates, but Danny nods. "Go on, Nicholas. Time you were getting home, too."

"What about you?" he asks. He and Danny were going to walk back to Danny's together, Danny leaning on him if the effort got too much. That was the plan, and it was a good one.

"Nah, reckon I'll stay awhile longer. Aidy and Ev'll see me home. Won't you, lads?" he asks the Turners.

"No problem," they answer in unison, something which seems to become more and more eerily frequent the more they drink.

Doris stumbles as they go down the step, falling against him. He puts an arm around her to steady her, only to feel her correct her balance with surprising agility, even while she continues to lean into his supporting arm.

"I ain't actually that drunk, you know," she whispers now that she's leaning close to him, confirming his sudden suspicions.

"I know," he tells her.

"Just wanted to give you an excuse to walk me home."

"What made you so sure I'd offer?"

She grins up at him. "Because I know you surprisingly well, Nicholas Angel," she shoots back.

To an outside observer it would have seemed simply that Doris Thatcher was rather the worse for drink and Nicholas Angel, being the gentleman that he was, though more than a little under the weather himself, was escorting her home, supporting her with a solicitous arm about her waist. That image lasts until about half a second after her front door closes behind them. Then he's shimmying her out of her dress and she's unbuckling his pants, all with unseemly haste, before they tumble once again onto the sofa.

The next day, he tells Danny that he fell asleep on her couch. It has the benefit of being completely true; it's just not the complete truth.

They pull that trick a couple of times over the next few months. It gets easier once Nicholas moves into the cottage on Spencer Hill. It is, as Frank Butterman assured him all those months ago, lovely, but it's also an inconveniently long walk from the pub. Easier, after all, to crash on a friend's sofa, and Doris' place is so close.

"So, when can I come over for a guided tour?" Doris asks him, at work no less, after learning from Danny that the two had spent the previous afternoon moving him in. Not that Danny had done much: Nicholas kept him occupied, and conveniently sidelined from any heavy lifting, setting up and tuning in the new TV and DVD player while he did the actual work. Danny is still banned from strenuous activities, on doctor's orders, although Nicholas and the others keep having to remind him of that.

"How about today after work?" he hears himself suggest. "I'll fix us something to eat."

"Mind if I join you?" Danny asks hopefully. He's a woeful cook, Nicholas a more than passable one, and there's no good reason to turn him down, so Nicholas doesn't.

"Sure. Be there about seven."

He hears a knock on the door just before six, when he's barely home from work, and wonders whether Danny mistook the time. But it's Doris who's standing on the threshold when he answers, with a smirk on her lips that tells him exactly what's on her mind.

For the benefit of any neighbours who might be watching he smiles and gestures for her to come in, exactly as though he was expecting her now, and not in an hour's time. Truth be told, he had rather been hoping for something like this.

"I didn't realise you were that keen to see my new home," he teases, staying just out of her reach.

"Got to give you a proper housewarming," she responds, reaching for him. He dodges, still teasing, then grabs her and pushes her up against the wall, lips meeting hers hungrily, hips grinding against hers in a way that leaves her in no doubt as to what's on his mind.

They stagger upstairs like that, although Nicholas is careful not to remove any clothing, his or hers, until they're in his bedroom. Danny has the spare key, and if Danny happens to have thought to bring it then their first warning of his arrival will be the sound of the front door opening. Scattered clothing on the stairs will rather give the game away, Nicholas thinks.

Once they're in his bedroom, of course, it's a whole other story. They're experts at this by now, most of their times together being quickies, with the threat of an unexpected phone-call or knock at the door, plus their own seldom-sated desires, meaning that they generally don't have the time or the inclination to linger. The sense of danger, of illicitness, is part of the thrill, and they both know it.

By the time Danny arrives they're both fully clothed and in the kitchen, Doris sipping wine sedately and Nicholas chopping vegetables whilst they discuss inconsequentialities. Doris has even had her promised tour of the cottage, and Danny is completely oblivious.


	5. Chapter 5

Looking back, Nicholas is amazed they've managed to keep it a secret as long as they have. It's been going on for almost a year now, and still no-one has any idea that he and Doris Thatcher are sleeping together. There have been a couple of close calls, but even Danny doesn't seem to have tumbled to what's really going on.

There is, however, one slight complication: he's tired of it. Not of Doris, but of the whole secrecy thing. He's starting to think of Doris as far more than a 'friend', with or without benefits, and is sick of treating her like his dirty little secret. He knows what it feels like to be in love, and has the uncomfortable feeling that love is what's stalking him now, just out of sight, ready to pounce on him the moment it thinks it has a chance, and dammit, he wants to give it that chance. He wants a proper relationship with Doris, regardless of where that might lead. He just can't see any way of making it happen.

The answer comes in a phone-call from Inspector O'Neil over at Buford Abbey. One of his Detective Sergeants is retiring next month, meaning that he'll be promoting one of his Detective Constables, meaning that there'll be a Detective Constable's position going at Buford Abbey. He's heard that one of Nicholas' PCs has recently sat her Detectives exams and passed with flying colours, and you don't see that often these days, and would Nicholas be willing to recommend this up-and-coming PC for the job?

Nicholas smiles and nods down the phone. Yes, PC Thatcher is an excellent officer. Yes, he'd have no hesitation in recommending her for the job. Yes, he'll speak to her today and tell her to get in touch with the Inspector directly. It would be a shame to lose her, of course, but perhaps Buford Abbey would be willing to see their way clear to lend her back to him should he ever have need? Or another detective, of course. Yes, he did wish he had more like her. And less like certain others, yes, but he'd rather not discuss that right now. If the Inspector would excuse him, he'd just seen Doris – PC Thatcher – walk through the door, and would go and mention it to her now.

"Doris, a word?"

She's scribbling in her notebook as she walks towards her desk, intent on getting something down while it's fresh in her mind. They're no longer in the Council Building, but rather in prefabricated units next to what will be the site of the new station. The endless sound of building work just about does Nicholas' head in at times, but he isn't complaining.

She looks up at the sound of his voice. "Sure Chief, what's up?"

He gestures towards his desk, inviting her to take a seat. He doesn't have a private office, but anything's better than that damn cupboard.

"I just had a call from Inspector O'Neil over in Buford Abbey. They're looking for a new Detective Constable." He's staring straight at her as he says it, willing her not to misinterpret, not to think that he's sending her away.

She nods slowly. "Go on."

"He'd heard that you did well in your exams: he wanted to know if I'd recommend you for the position."

"And did you?" There's something in her expression, but he isn't sure what. She could be glad but not daring to get her hopes up. Or she could be getting ready to punch him. He isn't sure.

He nods. "I did. You know I'd rather keep you here" – he cuts his gaze meaningfully towards Danny, who is filling in paperwork across the room and pretending not to listen, and hopes that she'll understand what he _isn't_ saying in those few words – "but it's a fantastic opportunity for you, Doris. If you're interested, you can ring Inspector O'Neil yourself." He holds out a piece of paper with the number, and she takes it hesitantly.

"Okay if I have a think about it?"

He nods again. "Of course."

He's unsurprised to find her on his doorstep later that evening, and even less surprised that sex clearly isn't what she's there for.

"So, this job. It'd mean you wouldn't be my commanding officer anymore, right?"

"You'd be reporting to Inspector O'Neil and not to me, yes."

"But we'd still be friends, right?" That wasn't what he was expecting and he blinks, caught off-guard. She must have misinterpreted his hesitation, because she continues in a rush. "Only, we wouldn't be seeing as much of each other, and we wouldn't have as much time to hang out, and things might not be as... convenient."

He can't help but smile because at that moment he's certain that he isn't the only one whose feelings have been growing deeper recently.

"Actually, I think it could be very convenient." She regards him warily, uncertain of where he's going with this, and he steps closer and draws her gently into his arms. "I don't know about you, but I'm tired of sneaking around, Doris. And as long as I'm your commanding officer, that's all we'll ever have. But if you transfer to Buford Abbey..." He trails off, and she raises her head to look him straight in the eye.

"What are you asking me, Nicholas?"

He swallows, suddenly nervous. "I'm asking you if you'd go out with me. No more sneaking around. No more friends with benefits. A proper relationship." He searches her face, hoping that he's on the right track here. For a moment Doris just looks up at him, then hugs him close, pressing herself against him. "Is that a 'yes'?" he asks, because he wants to be sure.

She giggles. "That's a 'yes', she confirms. "Although," she adds, looking up at him with mischief written all over her face, "I wouldn't want things to get too proper."

He quirks an eyebrow but doesn't have time to say anything before her lips meet his in a passionate kiss.


End file.
